


Just Call Me A Cab

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Broken Bones, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once, Peter is not in control of a situation and Neal suffers the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Call Me A Cab

**Author's Note:**

> Beta credit to Treon. I write 'em and she fixes.

      Neal had a nagging headache, and it was sitting right next to him in the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus. As implausible as it seemed, Peter was not the driver of his own vehicle today.

     Neal and Peter had been in Virginia the last few days attending an Agent-CI symposium at Quantico. Peter had been overjoyed at the opportunity to lead a lecture and discussion for the first year recruits about the protocols surrounding the use of a confidential informant. Neal suspected that he was simply dragged along as window dressing, although Peter never put it exactly that way. It was either that or Peter was hesitant to leave Neal to his own devises in New York for four days without being able to hover. Pulling up Neal’s tracking data while five hours away was not going to keep Peter’s stress level or his blood pressure under control.

     So, Peter drove them south on the interstate to his alma mater, and, once the event was underway, Neal actually had to give Peter credit for being an engaging, informative speaker. Of course, Neal added comic relief to the lectures by recounting various and sundry humorous anecdotes. The dynamic duo had no problems keeping everyone’s attention, and the Q and A sessions were interesting and lively, with both Peter and Neal tap dancing as fast as they could around certain sensitive topics. They both loved a challenge, so it was all good.

     Everything was copacetic until the incident happened on the very last day of the conference. Peter, in the course of his illustrious career, had chased perpetrators through the streets of New York, down dark alleys, and through buildings with convoluted corridors. Hell, he had even given Neal a run for his money back in the day across several rooftops in Paris and over a bridge in Venice. So, everyone was shocked when a flight of concrete steps leading out of a Quantico building proved to be Peter’s undoing. He simply slipped and took a header that was neither elegant nor graceful. The end result was a fractured right ankle that was now in a bulky cast that reached just below his knee. Fast-forward to the crutches. Crutches were not Peter’s friend, he discovered rather early on in this soap opera. Yep, “Mr. College All Star Athlete” was a real klutz on crutches. So, unfortunately, with a great deal of frustrated trepidation, Peter was forced to hand the keys over to Neal for the drive back to New York.

     “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this, Neal,” Peter stated emphatically.

     “Will you relax, Peter! I am a very proficient driver. I have negotiated the winding curves of Monaco at 100 miles per hour in a Maserati, and driven a Vespa at break-neck speed through the narrow streets of Florence. I think that I can safely navigate a six lane highway in this tank of a Taurus.”

     Apparently, Peter was less than convinced. They hadn’t been on Interstate 95N for more than a half hour when the pain had started in Neal’s head.

     “Neal, you need to pick up the pace if we’re going to get around the 495 Capital Beltway that circles Washington before rush hour. You’re driving like a little old lady!”

     “Peter! I’m doing the speed limit. It says 65 mph and that’s what I’m doing,” Neal answered patiently.

     “For God’s sake, Neal, nobody does the _exact_ speed limit. Competent drivers usually consider it a suggestion. If traffic is moving along briskly, then you keep up. You don’t stay in the right lane and let every tractor-trailer whiz by so fast that they almost blow us off the road.”

     Neal gritted his teeth. “Peter, do you really want to run the chance that a Virginia State Smokey will pull us over and ask to see my driver’s license?”

     Peter suddenly had an appalled look on his face. “Oh God, Neal, please don’t tell me that you have a fraudulent driver’s license in your wallet!”

     Neal just couldn’t help himself. Actually, he did indeed have his valid New York license on him, but it was just so much fun to extract a little payback. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Peter. It’s an out of state license, so most likely it will pass inspection with the local cops.”

     When Peter actually moaned, Neal said helpfully, “Do you need a pain pill, Peter? You have them in your pocket, and I have a bottle of water right here in the console. I still think that you should be in the back seat with your leg elevated.”

     “If I was in the backseat, Neal, I couldn’t help you drive. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to wear my seatbelt in that position, and that is against the law. Don’t you read those overhead signs that say ‘Click It or Ticket’?”

     Neal sighed. “You give no credence to posted speed limit signs, but you take those overhead road marquees as gospel. Peter, you’re just one contradiction after the other.”

     It was quiet for the space of about ten minutes until Peter started in again, reminding Neal that he needed to move into the far left lanes because they were the EZ-Pass lanes for the upcoming toll plaza.

     “Peter, that’s two miles down the road. I’ll have plenty of time to ease over,” Neal said as reasonably as he could.

     Only another five minutes of quiet ensued, but it was enough time for Neal to contemplate a rather extreme remedy for his headache. Would he be charged with kidnapping if the police stopped him and they found a federal agent in the trunk? Maybe it would be a lesser charge of simple assault of a federal officer. Then he almost giggled out loud when his thoughts turned to Amelia Earhart. She had been one smart cookie when she took a “solo” flight across the Atlantic -- no co-pilot to tell her to pull back on the throttle, or demand to know her altitude every five minutes.

     Neal was annoyingly pulled from his reverie when the toll plaza and EZ Pass lanes again became a topic of conversation… urgent conversation per Peter. “Neal, you need to move over _now_ so that you don’t have to cut in front of another car and possibly cause a multi-car pileup!”

     Neal held his tongue, tempted for just a second to remind Peter of his erratic lane shifting that caused even hardened, veteran cabbies in New York City to teeter on the brink of road rage. Courteously flipping on his left turn signal, he glided into the far left lane and sailed through the checkpoint without causing vehicular manslaughter. They were just about another two miles down the highway when Peter told Neal to pull in at the next rest stop area.

     “Why?” Neal wanted to know.

     “Why do you think, Sherlock?” Peter growled. “I need to use the facilities.”

     “Peter, we’ve only been on the road for a little over an hour. Didn’t you go before we left?”

     Peter eyed Neal maliciously. “ _You_ were not the recipient of copious amounts of intravenous fluids at the emergency room, Neal. Just do what I ask and spare me the critique.”

     Thankfully, within the next ten miles, Neal was able to exit the turnpike onto the parking lot of one of the frequently occurring rest areas that featured aisles of gas pumps, as well as a sprawling edifice encompassing every fast food restaurant in the United States, if the signs were to be believed. He made a beeline for a handicapped parking spot right in front of the building.

     “Neal, you can’t park here…...it’s clearly marked ‘Handicapped’! You’ll earn us a ticket and a hefty fine for sure.”

     “Peter, you _are_ handicapped right at the moment,” Neal responded calmly.

     “Well this vehicle does not have a handicapped license plate and we don’t have a handicapped placard to hang on the mirror, so your argument is not valid!” Peter huffed.

     “Can’t we just put our FBI sign in the front windshield like _you_ do quite often in New York,” Neal said reasonably.

     “Neal, I’m not in the mood for this discussion. Just drop me off near that ramp, and then go park in a legal spot. When you see me come out, pull around and pick me up.”

     “I really think it would be a good idea if I came in with you to make sure that you don’t fall,” Neal suggested.

     The look that Peter gave him was narrow-eyed and forbidding. “You are not following me into the bathroom, Neal. I can handle my own zipper, thank you very much. If you’re hanging all over me, we might both get arrested by some over-zealous mall cop who suspects us of sexual impropriety!”

     Neal just didn’t have a response for that zinger, so he clamped his mouth shut and went around to open Peter’s door. He watched helplessly as Peter precariously balanced his weight getting out and then laboriously, at a snail’s pace, made his way up the ramp on his crutches. The electric eye opened the door automatically for him, and then he clumped away into the dark recesses.

     Neal dutifully parked the car in a nearby legal slot, but he then got out and went to sit on a concrete bench just outside of the doors. He waited and waited, and waited some more. After twenty minutes, he was getting really antsy and worried. He was now contemplating calling Peter’s phone, willing to risk more of the agent’s wrath because he would think that Neal was merely impatient with the wait. Before he took that daunting step, he decided to try to find his overdue charge. First stop was the bathroom because Neal had visions of Peter splayed out on a dirty men’s room floor like Bambi on an icy pond. He went up and down two rows of urinals and checked out the shoes beneath a long bank of stall doors. No Peter! He checked again with the same result.

     Exiting that avenue of possibility, he then stood in the middle of the mall-like building and tried to gaze in both directions for a six-foot tall man hobbling along like Tiny Tim in a Scrooge Christmas story. Besides the long hallways, there were little alcoves off to the sides that housed newspaper stands and gift shops. He hurried down each short passage just to be sure that Peter hadn’t wandered into one of those. Nada! Now he was beginning to get a little panicky. How could he lose Peter, and how could he tell Hughes that he had lost Peter? For that matter, how could he tell Elizabeth? This was really, really bad! He was all out of other options except actually calling Peter on his cell, but he was saved from that dilemma by the ringing of his own phone.

     “Where the hell are you, Neal? I’m standing out here and you’ve disappeared!” Peter’s ire came through loud and clear.

     “You’re outside?” Neal was incredulous. “I’ve been waiting outside and you never came out so I came inside to look for you.”

     “Well I am definitely outside, Neal, so just get your ass out here now!”

     Neal hustled outside but Peter was nowhere in sight. Now Neal’s headache was really pounding. Then inspiration struck. There were actually two entrances to the rest areas. Drivers going in a northerly direction on the turnpike accessed from one set of doors, while those going south had a different entrance on the other side of the building. Just as he thought, he found Peter standing outside on the southern egress side. Rushing up to his glowering handler, he was about to explain the mix up, but Peter derailed that plan.

     “What the hell have you been doing, Neal? I was seriously beginning to suspect that you hotwired a car, cut your anklet and had taken off for parts unknown!”

     That really stung and hurt filled Neal’s eyes, but then he quickly covered that emotion. It just would not do for a conman to show vulnerability. He let Peter seethe for a few tense minutes, and then he quietly explained that the car was parked on the other side of the building. Slowly they made their way in that direction with not another word spoken.

     Once in the car, the only thing that Peter mumbled was that maybe he needed to take a pain pill, and Neal simply nodded his head. The analgesic must have worked some kind of magic because Peter drifted in and out of a light sleep for the next hour. Somewhere approaching Delaware, he roused and told Neal to take the 495 bypass around Wilmington towards Philadelphia because no trucks were allowed and they could make better time.

   “Got it,” Neal murmured, and waited for more complaining and disapproving commentary on his driving. When none came, Neal felt safe enough to make a suggestion. “Peter, Amtrak has a station in Wilmington and another in Philadelphia. I could get us there and we could make the rest of the trip by train. I could leave the car in long-term parking and you could have Jones drive down at some point with another agent to retrieve it. It would definitely be more comfortable for you than this cramped car with me at the wheel.”

     “Just drive, Neal,” was all the response he got for many miles.

     Finally, Peter turned slightly, not quite looking at Neal when he quietly said, “I really didn’t mean that back there, you know.”

     “Yeah, you did,” was Neal’s soft reply. “You still don’t trust me and I shouldn’t be surprised. But no worries, Peter, I’m not that thin-skinned.” It was a point of pride with Neal that he never lied to Peter, but right now he felt justified in making an exception. He was not about to admit that Peter’s assumption had really hurt.

     The states continued to roll by -- Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey -- all in silence. Eventually the familiar New York skyline could be seen off to their right. All that was left was a tunnel and a bridge and they would be in Brooklyn. Before they reached their final destination, Peter turned and really looked at Neal this time.

     “Neal, I know we’ve created a wealth of history these last several years. There’s been a lot of intrigue, secrecy, subterfuge, deception and even hurt, sometimes on both our parts. But a lot of good things have come out of it, too. I’m still here and so are you, and I’m the first to admit that I know that anklet is not what’s keeping you from leaving. I truly believe that you are right where you want to be, and I’m glad that you feel that way.”

     Neal stayed silent, not sure what to say.

     Peter was thoughtful for a minute, then continued. “Maybe whoever is writing our story believes that if there was ever complete trust between us, our saga would end. But I don’t think that’s true. Let’s prove ‘em wrong.”

     And just like that, Peter had managed to heal the wound that he had inflicted. Neal’s taut muscles began to relax again as he quietly answered, “I’m right with you, Peter.”

     They were now parked outside of Peter’s Brooklyn townhouse and Elizabeth was hurrying down the steps with Satchmo at her heels. Peter knew he was in for a world of cosseting by the woman he loved. Neal was opening the car door for him and trying to hand him the keys to the Taurus. Peter pushed them resolutely back into Neal’s hand.

     “No, Buddy, you drive the car home and keep it for a while. You’re going to have to be my chauffeur back and forth to Federal Plaza until this cast comes off.”

     A stricken look came over Neal’s face. “No, no, no, Peter! Please, just call me a cab!”

 


End file.
